


Orphans of Flame and Shadow

by Likimeya



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dragons, Dwarves, Elves, First Age, Friendship, Gen, Rivendell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likimeya/pseuds/Likimeya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the dwarves’ short respite at Rivendell, Glorfindel and Thorin come almost close to bonding over a certain shared memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orphans of Flame and Shadow

It could have been an exceptionally pleasant evening, Glorfindel thought. The autumn air was crisp and full of fragrances of all shapes. The rivers carried that perfect amount of water tonight that turned the waterfalls’ roaring song into a lullaby that was just quiet enough for the furtive scurrying of the squirrels to reach his ears from beyond the stone railing of the great terrace’s quiet end. 

Yes, it would have been a remarkably peaceful night – were it not for the gloomy presence of Thorin Oakenshield, who was sitting across from him at the small table and was at this moment not even bothering to hide the disdain with which he forced spoonfuls of Cook’s famous clear vegetable soup into his disapproving mouth. As far as Glorfindel was concerned, His Shortness was welcome to find himself a nice cave in the cliffs and live off bat droppings or whatever his usual diet was. But alas! he was acting as an official representative tonight. Since the lord of Rivendell was engaged in private council with guests of a far higher order, it had fallen on him as the more or less second most eminent elf in the valley to host the dinner party for their royal refugee during his absence.

His usual brooding self, the naug* was not making this easy for Glorfindel. Still reserved in the extreme even with Elrond, he clearly did not take well to being fenced in like this with an even less familiar elf. In all fairness, though, neither were the sons of Elrond, sitting to his either side, merrily singing nightingales tonight. And who would not feel reticent at this exceedingly awkward social gathering into which the dwarf prince, Glorfindel and the twins had each of them all but been press-ganged by Gandalf and the Lord of Imladris! Judging by the all-too-serene smile of the twin nearest to him, Elrond would pay for this with a few bottles of a rare vintage gone missing from his private cellar. Glorfindel smirked in spite of himself.

The latest uncomfortable stretch of silence was finally broken by the twin to his right.  
“The young ones I understand”, said Elrohir, nodding towards the other end of the balcony where the sons of Dís were entertaining the whole hairy party by wrapping little Ori in apple spirals. “They’ve never had to face the terror that waits at the end of your path. I see how they are able to go on this quest with any sort of confidence – hoping, I imagine, to make a name for themselves and inspire songs of bravery. But you, you _have_ seen the dragon. You’ve felt his power. You’ve seen a mighty fortress crumble under him and its garrison burnt to ash; you’ve had your very beard singed by his breath. Why do you insist on going back and, forgive my lack of faith, likely perishing in his cursed desolation?”

Thorin had, for sure, been asked that question before, and more than once. He uttered a small, bitter snort, but did no more than shake his head and gaze at the wine cup in front of him with an eloquently knit brow, but without a word. This sullen silence would have appeared childish to Glorfindel, were it not tempered by that great, almost tangible sadness in the dwarf that lent sincerity to his every gesture. Its roots seemed to have drained him of any concern for dissimulation before any audience. 

Glorfindel knew the mindset very well. Although in himself it had been assuaged by time and joy in abundance, it was an old friend of his. How curious that, after centuries of being alone with memories of the end of the world, he should find a kindred spirit in an uncouth dwarf from the wild lands. It would sound preposterous to Elvish ears to liken his own sacrifice to Thorin’s fate, or Gondolin to Erebor. But whatever difference there might be seemed negligible to Glorfindel at that moment. The consequence, the _feeling_ was the same. He said softly into the silence:

“Because he has also seen the Mountain. And, having seen it, knows that there are homes for which one will gladly walk into fire over and over, time and again, if there is even the slightest hint of a chance that the melting of your flesh will help bring back to these lands the faintest echo of their former radiance.”

Thorin sat transfixed. His mind was clearly racing behind the furrows of his brow, searching his repertoire of tales and legends of his forefathers for a key, anything that would help explain the sudden perception of kinship with the blond beanpole in front of him. 

It was easy, almost comically so, to pinpoint the moment when Thorin struck gold. The dwarf’s eyes widened and Glorfindel could positively watch the images from his own past appearing in them: a zizagging figure of shimmering heat with bottomless cold pits for eyes; a relentless, burning ruin not all that different from a firedrake. Steaming water, crumbling walls and falling friends. And behind all that flame and shadow, a glimpse of pillars of shining stone and pure crystal forever unspoilt in memory…

It lasted perhaps two seconds – then Thorin’s self-consciousness got the better of him and his eyes grew guarded once more, a window falling shut where an opportunity might have opened. He snorted dismissively.

"The case is simply that I fear my creditors more than any dragonfire." After a short pause in which the twins looked rather comically from one of them to the other, left eyebrows raised, he added: "It’s getting late. I should go and see if my people want to talk to me. Gentle…folk.” And grumbling nothing more, he nearly stumbled over his own feet once, then stomped away.

Glorfindel breathed a silent sigh of regret, but not too deeply. He had half expected this reaction. What more could you expect? It would take a larger threat than a far-off dragon to make a stone-headed dwarf accept an Elvish hand in friendship.

**Author's Note:**

> Naug is Sindarin for 'dwarf'.


End file.
